


When the Time Is Right (The Darkness Will Leave Us)

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Apologies, Happy Ending, M/M, Midwinter, Misunderstandings, New Beginnings, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, WinterKnights, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: Give him time, they'd said. Given all that Elyan's been through, Percival thinks he understands. But as the months go by and the distance grows, he starts to wonder. Then, during the Midwinter festivities, he notes Elyan slipping out early and has an epiphany: Maybe it's less about waiting for enough time to pass and more about choosing therighttime.
Relationships: Elyan/Percival (Merlin)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 35
Collections: WinterKnights 2019 - a Merlin Winter/Holiday Fest





	When the Time Is Right (The Darkness Will Leave Us)

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Thanks to the Winterknights crew for keeping this time of year chock full of Merlin-y goodness! For years, off and on, I've lamented the lack of Elyan/Percival while continuing to write anything but - so this year I decided to put my fandom money where my fandom mouth is, so to speak, and indulge in a little rarepair feels. Set at Midwinter, after the events of S04.

* * * * * * * * *

There's a fresh layer of snow on the ground, fallen during the Midwinter feast. It's the wet, pillowy sort that looks impressive, but quickly turns to dark puddles beneath Percival's boots as he makes his way out of the Citadel and into the Lower Town. 

The streets are mostly deserted at this hour, people gathered around their hearths with hot food and drink, cheering one another through the longest night of the year. Light shines from windows. As he passes the tavern he can hear the rhythmic banging of cups, laughter, and snatches of song, and smiles thinking that it'll be much the same up at the castle by now, the formal celebrations over and everyone well in their cups. 

The forge, however, is silent and shuttered, its great doors firmly closed. He fancies he can see a faint light through the cracks though. He places his torch in the nearest sconce and pounds on the wicket door.

"Elyan? Is that you?"

There's no reply, and a moment later Percival's left wondering if he imagined the light. Perhaps Gwen was mistaken, and does not know her brother as well as she thinks. Or perhaps Elyan is no longer the man they knew. 

Give him time, they'd said. Gaius. Merlin. Leon. Gwaine.

And again and again, Percival had given him time: after they'd been at one another's throats over that cursed witch of a girl; after Gwen's banishment; after that nightmarish possession that had strained every ounce of Percival's loyalty and nearly broken his heart.

And even now, with Camelot restored to its rightful King and Gwen restored to her place at Arthur's side, Percival's been giving Elyan time. Time to heal, to forgive, to regain his pride and re-establish his place in Arthur's inner circle. So much time, in fact, that Percival's sick with it. 

He sighs, watching his breath take form in the chilly air, and shifts the sack off his shoulder. It doesn't weigh much, but he can't bear the thought of carrying it all the way back to the castle. It's proof, somehow, of his folly, the foolish thought—an epiphany it had seemed at the time, brooding over his venison and a cup of strong wine—that maybe it's less about waiting than choosing the _right_ time.

He's debating whether to hang the sack from the sign post, where at least the dogs won't get at it, or give the contents away to one of the widows in town when he hears a mighty clatter from within, followed by a few choice words.

"Hello?" Percival pounds on the door again. "Who's there? Elyan, if it's you open up, else I'm calling the guard!"

There's no answer, but a moment later Percival hears a clank, then a thud, and the wicket door swings open. Elyan looks up at Percival, frowning slightly.

"What are you doing here?" 

He's a proper mess, covered in dust, ash, and bits of straw. Even in the dim light, Percival can see the soot streaking his trousers and the damp patches of sweat on his threadbare tunic. But for once in what feels like forever, Elyan's looking _at_ him instead of through, and Percival can't help the grin that overtakes him. 

He holds out the sack, saying, "You slipped out before the pudding. Walnut cake with spiced plums in honey, by order of the Queen. Didn't want you missing out."

Elyan's eyes dart to the sack, then back to Percival's face, frown easing into a neutral expression. 

"Thank you," he says, giving a little nod. He reaches out for the sack. Something about his body language makes Percival realize that he means to accept the gift and retreat back inside the forge, and that won't do.

He clears his throat and steps nearer, peering in over Elyan's shoulder. There are broken cart wheels and what looks like a collapsed stack of barrel hoops strewn across the floor. 

"Also, I thought you might welcome some company, extra pair of hands and all. Gwen…er, the Queen, that is, she explained about the—"

"I don't need help."

"Sure sounded like you do. Look—" Elyan narrows his eyes as Percival unknots the sacks and tips the opening towards him. "I couldn't find a whole log, but there's some good birch twigs in there, plus holly, new candles, and some dried herby bits Merlin says to throw in with the wash water."

Elyan blinks, then peers into the sack. "And that?" he says, pointing at the wineskin. "Brighid's tears, I suppose? Or water from the Cauldron of Arianrhod?"

"Ah." Percival grimaces. "That's from Gwaine, so, no. Says it's a crime to be sober at Midwinter."

Elyan snorts, but he lets go of the door and accepts the sack with both hands. Percival releases it, then slowly lifts his hands to Elyan's shoulders, watching him for any sign of discomfort—any shudder or recoiling, or hint of fear in his eyes—but there is none, and he smiles his relief. Torture takes each man for its own, changes him in some fashion, and he's been worried Elyan might never again welcome his touch. Even Gwaine, still quick with a laugh or merry prank, admits to the occasional nightmare.

Percival settles his hands, then lets one thumb stray to Elyan's neck, stroking the warm skin there. "He also says it's a crime to spend the longest night alone."

"Gwaine thinks it a crime to spend _any_ night alone," Elyan scoffs. He relaxes into the touch though, nose and lips scrunching into the beginnings of a smile. "Do you know, he once threatened to christen his hands Dame Bathilda and Lady Elaine so he would always have bedmates to boast of in the tavern?"

"Sounds about right. Though…isn't Bathilda the name of Sir Brennis's wife?" 

Elyan arches a brow. "Why do you think he was so pleased when you broke Sir Brennis's wrist?"

Percival chuckles, embarrassed at the memory, but overjoyed to be here. _Here_ , with Elyan solid under his palms, cracking jokes and looking more himself than he had in all his court finery earlier, presenting envoys to the King and Queen.

They've both been away, off and on, for most of the autumn and early winter, Elyan somehow getting himself assigned to every far-flung diplomatic mission and Percival, lonely and restless, volunteering for countless patrols.

"I've missed you," he blurts, flicking a bit of straw off Elyan's collar, thumbing a smear of ash off his temple. From there it seems the simplest, most natural thing in the world to lean in and press his lips to Elyan's forehead, then rest his own against it.

"They all told me to give you time. I tried, I've _been_ trying, but I bloody miss you, Elyan Thomas, and I don't understand how time helps if I _can't_. I hate thinking on what you suffered at Morgana's hands, then cringe when I recall treating you little better—"

"Hush now. That was not your fault."

"It sure as hell wasn't _yours._ I was myself. You weren't. I used our bond against you, used my fists…" Percival swallows, briefly closing his eyes. "So I'd understand if you can't fully trust me, or no longer want me in that way. But, dammit, I would still be your friend, your brother-in-arms."

"Sweet… _idiot_ ," Elyan whispers. "If it did not mean dropping the gifts you've brought, I would wallop you now to even the score. Would you rather have watched me run through?"

"No!"

"Then there's nothing for me to forgive, except your distance these many months." Elyan shrugs, sighs. "I thought…"

"What?"

"You thought me…soiled, somehow. Weak. Or that you'd tired of me."

Percival swallows, shaking his head, and tugs Elyan closer. "Never."

Elyan hums, nuzzling into his neck, and for a time they rest there in the doorway, swaying into one another, letting the warmth build between them even as a cold wind tugs at Percival's cloak.

Then Elyan pulls back, saying, "You do realize that if I let you in, it won't be all pudding and kisses and whatever the hell's in the wineskin? This forge needs to be spotless before dawn; only then will I consider showing you how a true smith rekindles the spark and welcomes the return of the sun."

"You are no smith," Percival murmurs. "You are a knight."

And there it is, at long last: a true smile, warm and a tad mischievous, reaching all the way to Elyan's eyes. 

"Ah, but I am a Thomas, and these days a man of my word. When my sister was first banished, I promised her I would see to all the old rituals, even the tricky ones."

"The tricky ones?"

"A forge is a needy thing, Percival, especially this time of year. It takes a certain…passion to renew the flame. A living spark, not just tinder and wood."

" _Passion_ , you say?"

"Mm. Man's inner fire made manifest. I was planning…well, I can take care of it on my own, but they do say the spark is more powerful when it's shared."

It takes Percival a moment to parse this—he's lived by a soldier's code for most of his life, has only a patchy knowledge of the old ways—then another to gather his wits.

"Lead on," he says hoarsely. "Please. Use me as you see fit, my friend, on this night and all that follow."

* * *


End file.
